


A Sheltered Moment

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Cuddles, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, Mentions of past drug use, Teenlock, attempted drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a troubled young teen with a bad history. John is his stalwart friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all. Been a while since I've written Johnlock, so I decided to write something short.
> 
> 6.5k later, I'm still laughing at myself. There's going to be at least a second part to this, because there's a few more things I want to explore in this universe. If there's anything you end up wanting to see, let me know and I'll see if I can incorporate them.
> 
> In this Sherlock is asexual. Please leave all of your preconceived notions of asexuality at the door. Asexuality is defined as a lack of sexual attraction, and that's all it is. There will probably be sex at some point in this. Yes, an asexual character can have sex if they want to.
> 
> Anyway. Time for angsty teenlock!

Sherlock held the vial to the window, to the sunlight streaming through, examining the contents, the purity. He had done his research, knew what to look for. Knew what he was in for, with the contents of the vial. _It had started slow, innocuous. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed it until it was too late. Hadn’t noticed just how much danger he was in until the blonde-haired boy had completely invaded every aspect of his life._

He picked up the syringe next to him, examined it, checking the markings on the side, how much he could draw up. _It wasn’t until every time he touched John that it felt like his skin was on fire, like he was burning, like his body was completely, utterly focused on that one, single point, that Sherlock noticed. That he realised just how far he had fallen. How he had gone from untouchable, aloof, full of hatred for the rest of society, to rendered a witless moron by a single smile from the simpleton John Watson._

Slipping the needle into the capped vial, he drew up the dosage he wanted, double and triple checking. He inhaled sharply, setting both the vial and the syringe aside, and wrapped a thin piece of rubber about his arm. _Some people would call it an irrational reaction to being in love - if that’s what Sherlock wanted to call it. He didn’t. It was an undeniable attraction, and one he had fought so hard to ignore. He didn’t want to deal with emotions, didn’t want to deal with love. The only solution would be to make it go away. There was only one way he knew how to make it stop._

He had hidden himself away, where no one could find him. He was alone. Flicking at his arm, he searched for a suitable vein. He had blown most of them in the past, but he was able to feel one. _He knew how it went, being high. It made the world fade away, made it so that nothing mattered. John would probably be worried. Maybe try and find him. But Sherlock was safe. John and his feelings of warmth, safety, security - they couldn’t reach him. He couldn’t see John’s smile, couldn’t feel his touch. Couldn’t feel the lurch in his stomach as John grinned madly when Sherlock caused the chem lab to be evacuated. Couldn’t feel the sizzling along his skin when John rested a hand on his shoulder when he was standing next to him. It would all be gone._

He slid the needle into the vein, pulling back on the plunger just a bit to make sure, allowing a faint pink tinge to colour the fluid. Didn’t want to risk blowing a perfectly good vein, not when he had so few. _It would be like the era Before John, where the world was pain and fear, blood and hatred. Sherlock had escaped, had transferred to a new school, a new family - the Lestrades. But it erased nothing. It didn’t erase the flinching, the looks, the fear. Everyone knew who he was and what had happened to him. Except for John. Not at first, at least. That was why he sat with Sherlock at lunch. Grinned at him. Asked him how his day was. Associated with the tarnished, the broken._

The door slammed open and Sherlock jerked so hard the needle nearly broke in his skin. As it was, it slipped out of the vein, and he scowled, lifting his head of tousled curls to glare fiercely at the unwelcome invader. He inhaled sharply when he saw who it was. The syringe was grabbed out of his hand, vial picked up and thrown across the room before strong, warm arms wrapped around him, gathered him close. “No,” John said fiercely, something dark and desperate in his voice that made Sherlock’s stomach clench uncomfortably.

Sherlock pushed away from him, from the touch that set fire racing through his body, stood up, not allowing himself to savour the good that lingered underneath the bad. He didn’t deserve it, none of it. He didn’t want it, he reminded himself fiercely. None of it. “Go away,” he told the other boy, proud that his voice didn’t waver. 

“No.” Sherlock could hear John cross his arms over his chest, hear the steely defiance. “I know what you’re going to do, the moment I leave.”

“If you aren’t going to leave, I’ll just go somewhere else,” Sherlock replied cooly, lifting his light-coloured eyes to meet John’s.

John, who played both rugby and soccer regularly, simply uncrossed his arms, went towards the door, barricading it by standing in front of it, a small figure, the lone soldier. “I bet I can.” The silence stretched between them, long and fraught with unresolved tension. It had been building, and Sherlock had done his best to ignore it, had done his best to pretend that nothing was going to happen, because it was only going to end up being painful and ripping his heart apart. “Sherlock, talk to me.”

“About what.” His voice was cold and hard. He turned, walked to the small bed in the shed, threw himself down on it, using the comforter as a shield. Petulant and childish, yes. But it was a defense nonetheless. He didn’t want to see John, didn’t want to see the disappointment, the hatred, when he realized that Sherlock was nothing but used and tarnished goods. He wasn’t worth sticking around for.

Soft footsteps echoed as John walked closer to the bed and Sherlock stiffened. John must have seen it, for he stopped. “Did you do your homework for biology today?” he asked conversationally. “Because I’m stuck on the question about mitochondria.”

Sherlock allowed the comforter to drop, just a bit, and turned over, facing John. For a moment, a tentative peace was re-established. “You’re lying,” he said curtly. “Biology’s your best subject.”

“Maybe.” John chuckled. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“No.” Sherlock moved, lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The truce that had been established moments before evaporated into thin air. “I’m not leaving.” John’s sigh was audible. “Why don’t you just go? I’m sure Mary’s waiting for you,” he spat out. John had been seen twice, in the past week, with the same girl. A simple, sweet, blonde-haired girl named Mary. She seemed the sort that John would like, but it had made bile rise in his throat every time Sherlock saw them together.

John walked closer, and Sherlock scrambled to grab the comforter and wrap it firmly around him. He scooted as far back as he could, to prevent John from touching him. John was good. John was light, and warmth. He couldn’t be sullied by Sherlock, not more than he already had been. “Sherlock, Mary and I aren’t dating.”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course you are.”

“We’re not.” John’s weight settled onto the edge of the bed. Sherlock inhaled sharply, fighting the myriad of emotions that were welling in him. He wanted closer, wanted farther away, wanted John curled up against him, holding him, kissing him, the same time he wanted John to never touch him again. His breath came faster and faster, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and the world threatened to spin, his chest tightening as the panic set in. “Sherlock.” John’s voice was quiet, comforting, and the soft tones of it wrapped around Sherlock like a security blanket. He clung to it, with all of his mind, as much as he was able to. “Silly git,” John murmured affectionately.

“I’m not silly,” Sherlock snapped, ignoring the fact he was wrapped up in a comforter and blankets like a toddler and looked rather childish.

“Sherlock, it’s you I wan-”

Sherlock tensed, tight as a whip, and bolted up, shoving John off the bed with the force of his actions. “Don’t,” he hissed through clenched teeth, fighting waves of panic, of dark thoughts, fear and loathing floating up unhindered. “Don’t say that.”

John lay sprawled on the floor, ashen, dark blue eyes wide as he stared up at his - what was he to Sherlock? What was Sherlock to him? Sherlock’s breath was coming rapidly, his teeth chattering, his body convulsing as it shook, caught in the throes of a panic attack. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, chest heaving, and he fought to move, to grasp, to have something to hold onto. The bed shifted, moved, something Sherlock barely registered, until he felt hands gently take his.

He inhaled sharply in surprise, fingers instinctively digging nails into the soft skin. He heard a muted groan from the other person, from John, but he didn’t let go, didn’t stop touching Sherlock. The touch felt - odd, felt like his skin was burning, tingling radiating from the point of contact and spreading a warmth throughout his entire body. He felt like he was sinking into the bed, like he was soaring, like he could do anything, if only John was by his side. It made him nauseous, made him sick, and he swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Stop.”

John carefully twined their hands together, smoothing thumbs over Sherlock’s too-pale skin. “Breathe for me.”

A shaky inhale, and Sherlock fought to gather his attention, draw together the shattered fragments of his mind to focus on the way his skin met John’s, how the rough skin brushed against the smoothness of his own. He exhaled slowly, feeling the tremours subside, his body losing some of its tenseness as it accommodated and adapted to John’s touch. “That’s it,” John encouraged, a smile on his face, one Sherlock dared not match. What exactly, was he supposed to be doing? Oh. Breathing. Sherlock crinkled his nose, the barest amount. How utterly pedestrian.

It wasn’t long enough before Sherlock was calm, and he could feel John loosen the grip on his hands, no longer focused on securing him, anchoring him in the midst of his panic attack. They sat in silence for a long time, breathing together, Sherlock clutching John’s hands, too scared to let go in case John left and didn’t come back. Finally, John shifted, peering down at his friend, and Sherlock reluctantly returned the eye contact, afraid of what John would see.

Staring at John was different. John was strong, and protective, and fierce, and Sherlock could see all of that. He was afraid John saw him as he felt - broken and empty, not worthy of anyone’s time or affection. John lifted their hands, squeezed them, deliberate, then let go. It felt like Sherlock had lost a connection, been set adrift, but he said nothing, didn’t fight. He watched, listened, observed.

“Let’s go,” John murmured. “Let’s get you home.”

Sherlock hadn’t hidden far from his foster home, which in retrospect, was probably a bad idea. Then again, he had no idea that John had even known where to look. He still had no idea how John had found him. Silently he stood and picked up his jacket, ignoring the drug paraphernalia, ignoring what had almost happened. It hadn’t and that was all he chose to think about it. John watched, steady and warm, supportive at the same time he was nonthreatening.

They walked towards Sherlock’s foster home in quiet contemplation. Occasionally their shoulders brushed, and when Sherlock flinched away, John didn’t say anything. If he caught Sherlock watching him, he offered a soft, warm smile that stoked the fire in Sherlock’s belly, made him want, made him need. He was torn between passion and hatred, two emotions that often coexisted. Eventually they stood at the end of the driveway, exchanging glances. “Do you want me to come with?” John asked, gentle.

What Sherlock really wanted was none of it to happen, for nothing to exist, for pain and uncertainty and confusion to be emotions of the past. But he knew it wasn’t realistic, and above all, Sherlock defaulted to logic and its conclusions. He took a deep breath, slipped a hand into John’s, feeling brave for the first time in a long time. It wasn’t much, and the contact scared him, the thought of what it meant causing his breath to hitch in his throat. He nodded, and John squeezed, reassuring, and took the first step towards Sherlock’s living quarters.

Greg, his foster father, had been suitably angry, but it was an odd sort of anger, more like a slow simmer. Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft was just as worried but obnoxiously so, having quickly deduced where Sherlock had been and what he had been attempting to do. John was considered a hero, Sherlock his corruptor. All in all, Sherlock had muttered rebelliously to himself, business as usual.

The next day, however, when Sherlock went to school, it wasn’t the same. Something was different. Something had changed, between him and John, because of the time in that small shed. The giddiness that attempted to consume him whenever he saw his friend had become lighter, happier, as if there was less of a burden weighing it down. John slid into the chair next to him during the final class, and Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. Instead he pulled slightly in towards himself, reluctant, and flipped open their biology textbook. It was John’s best subject.

Before he knew it John was slamming the book shut since class was over, sticking it in his bag and standing expectantly, waiting for Sherlock to catch up. “Do you wanna do something?” John asked amicably, his backpack already slung over his shoulder.

“No,” Sherlock replied shortly, picking up his gray messenger bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Alright, we can just hang out at your place.” John seemed unruffled by Sherlock’s curt tone, and Sherlock scowled at him.

“Greg wouldn’t allow it,” Sherlock deflected. There. It was true. Greg certainly wouldn’t allow Sherlock company, not after last night.

“Yes he would,” John replied with a cheeky grin. “Already asked him.” He slid his hand into Sherlock’s and led their way out of the school. Sherlock blinked, startled. When? What? Why? John wanted to spend more time with him? He narrowed his eyes. There was obviously something else going on here, some sort of motive he simply wasn’t picking up on.

They spent the rest of the day in Sherlock’s bedroom, Sherlock reluctantly drawn out of his desire to be antisocial by John’s eager academic discussions. Sherlock was loathe to be quiet when there was the potential that John could be spreading misinformation about the DNA replication cycle. Eventually John bade Sherlock goodbye, leaving the tall, dark-haired teen sprawled on his bed, one of their more focused biology textbooks spread out in front of him.

There was a knock on the door. “Go away,” Sherlock muttered immediately, eyes captured by the helix decorating the page he was on.

The door opened and Greg stepped in, closing it partially behind him. He grabbed the chair from Sherlock’s desk and moved it to the center of the room. Sherlock’s room was abnormally clean, everything meticulously put away. Not that he had much, anyway. The Lestrades were his fifth foster family in six months. He never stayed anywhere for long. Still, at least Greg was nice. It wasn’t like Marie, his wife, was around much, not anymore.

“How was school today?” Greg asked. Sherlock made a disparaging noise, turned his face away. Hopefully if he ignored Greg, the older man would go away and leave him alone. It had worked on all the others. He heard him sigh, heard the chair squeak as he rearranged himself. “Sherlock, we need to talk.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, at that. His hands balled into fists. He wasn’t going to cry. He refused to cry. Too many times he’d allowed himself to hope, to think that maybe, just maybe, he had found a family that wouldn’t shove him out the door the moment things got rough. “When’s the social worker coming?” Sherlock asked coolly, voice muted by the fabric his face was pushed against.

“What?” Greg seemed genuinely puzzled, and for a moment, Sherlock felt hope flare in his heart. He shoved it back down.

“You’re getting rid of me, right?” Pushing himself up, he turned so that his head rested on his elbow, propping him up so that he could meet Greg’s eyes. “I’m too tough for you. Too broken.” He spat out the last word like it was poison, and in a way, it was. Sherlock knew the statistics now, that said that he wasn’t going to make it, that he was going to have the roughest time. Those that were pulled as teenagers always did. That wasn’t even taking into account his history.

“Sherlock, you’re not broken,” Greg said quietly. “I’m not - as you put it - ‘getting rid’ of you.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, searching Greg’s face for any sign that he was being dishonest. There was nothing but an open sort of honesty that caused Sherlock to tense uncomfortably. He was used to deceit, to people lying and taking advantage. Someone - a normal person, who couldn’t hide from him - that sort of person confused him. There had to be something behind it. Some motive he couldn’t read. “John’s a good sort, isn’t he?”

Sherlock’s shrug was barely noticeable, as he was laying on the bed. John was more than just a good sort. He was all that was good, all that was light and wonderful. That was why Sherlock couldn’t be near him. That was why they shouldn’t be together. He wasn’t good for him. Greg smiled faintly, just the lift of a corner of his lips, and Sherlock scowled.

“You’re not polluting him. He’s not going to catch anything, being round you,” Greg started, stopping when Sherlock lifted himself up into a sitting position, glaring fiercely at the older man.

“How would you know?” Sherlock snapped. “You don’t know anything. You’re just a stupid adult.”

Sherlock’s body, already whip-tense, nearly snapped in half when Greg let out a short laugh. “Sherlock, you’re not the only one who’s gone through something like you went through. Whose father had a penchant for little boys.” There was something dark, a cloud forming on Greg’s face that caused something to clench in Sherlock’s chest, some feeling of kinship that he hated and wanted to go away. “Everyone at school. They laugh and point, but never to your face, no. To your face they just stare at you, or even worse, flinch away from you. Like your father’s perversion is something they could catch. Like you could contaminate them.”

Sherlock dipped his chin a fraction in mute acceptance, agreement. He softened, his body loosening, and he slumped back against the wall. “You know.”

“Yeah.” Greg nodded, the cloud on his face dissipating, his expression returning to normal. “But John’s a good guy. He doesn’t care about all that stuff.”

“He doesn’t know,” Sherlock cut him off. “That’s the only reason he talks to me.”

“Why are you so sure of that?” Greg inquired, his tired face kind.

Sherlock had no response to this, so he rolled onto his front, sprawling out over his bed, much in the same position he had been initially. Greg leaned over, patted the bed, before standing and returning the chair to its original position. “Just think about it, okay? That’s all I’m asking.” He left Sherlock’s room, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock did think about it. Turned the thought over and over in his mind. He tossed the biology book off his bed, stared at the ceiling. Breathed in and out, and thought. John’s simple acceptance. His smiles. The way he leaned into touch Sherlock, wasn’t afraid to feel his skin on his fingertips. He wasn’t afraid of ‘contamination’. He was just - him. And it was something that frightened Sherlock to no end.

John wasn’t easily categorized, like the others. Sherlock couldn’t place him in a box, couldn’t assign him a label, no matter how much he tried to. John continued to defy anything and everything Sherlock tried. And Sherlock - Sherlock wanted it. Craved it. But it terrified him at the same time. it was new and different, and since leaving - where he came from, New and Different had never been very positive words.

Sherlock exhaled in a huff, glaring at the ceiling as if it was purposefully denying him answers. Instead, he forced the issue from his mind, deciding he had contemplated it enough, and instead turned to the homework he had to complete for the next day. Tedious as it was, it would provide a sufficient distraction from - John.

School the next day was horrific. The teachers seemed to go out of their way to be particularly boring, and John had to stop Sherlock three times from attempting to get in trouble out of sheer, unbeatable boredom. The first had been an attempt to see how far he could flick a pencil. The second was with a bunsen burner, in chemistry. Then Sherlock had been moments from dropping a large box of books on the floor. He huffed. John was so utterly responsible that it was nearly vomit-inducing to contemplate.

Sherlock had asked Greg if he minded if John came over again, and Greg had said it was fine, offering Sherlock a wink that he scowled at, drawing a chuckle from the older man. John followed Sherlock out of the schoolyard. It was nearly deserted - Sherlock always left later than the rest, to ensure the looks, the whispers, the giggles were something he didn’t have to tolerate more than he absolutely had to. “I know what happened to you,” John said offhandedly. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his pulse accelerating, throat suddenly too dry.

“No you don’t,” he snapped, catching up to the few steps John had gotten ahead. “You only know what those idiotic buffoons said happened to me.”

John slowed to a stop, Sherlock reacting appropriately, stopping next to him, although neither boy looked at each other. “No one told me, Sherlock. Well, not the details. I didn’t listen. I did some research. Found out where - where he’s jailed, what the charges were.”

Sherlock wanted so badly to hide, to just disappear. To forget that this was happening. He had never wanted John to know how tarnished he was, how broken, how utterly pathetic he was. That he hadn’t even been strong enough to prevent his father from doing - what he did. “How long have you known?” he asked quietly.

“Couple months now,” John replied, and Sherlock could see something, some expression on his face that he couldn’t understand. He started walking again, and Sherlock blinked for a moment, then caught up. A couple months? But - there was no way - what?

“What?” Sherlock said dumbly.

John stopped, and this time he did spin to look at Sherlock. There was some warmth in his eyes, some affection that made Sherlock feel like there were insects crawling all over him, a creepy sort of prickling in his pores. “It doesn’t bother me, you know,” he said carefully. “I don’t think you’re contaminated, or I’m going to ‘catch something’ from you. That’s just silly.” John shrugged. “Did you happen to watch the match on the telly last night?” he asked amicably, changing the subject as easily as he drew breath.

“No,” Sherlock said dismissively with a shake of his head. John sighed dramatically.

“Well, you missed a good one,” he informed Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The next few weeks passed in much a similar matter, John nattering him about matches, schoolwork, whatever came to mind. It felt much more natural, each passing moment, to have John around. The sizzling that had caused problems, had caused pain, had slowly faded to a bearable level. It still scared him, but less. He was able to focus more on the bits that he liked, that made him feel warm, safe, secure. All feelings he wasn’t used to, but was growing to selfishly enjoy.

“What do you mean, you’re going away for the weekend?” Sherlock demanded, sprawled across the sofa as Greg cooked dinner in the kitchen.

Greg rolled his eyes. “It’s a training seminar I have to go to, Sherlock,” he said patiently. “For work.”

“Boring, boring, boring,” Sherlock muttered savagely. “What imbecile is going to be required to watch me? Your wife?” When Greg tensed, Sherlock knew he had hit a sore spot. He didn’t say anything, but he plucked aggressively at the fabric of the couch, his version of an apology.

“She’s away at a friend’s house,” Greg replied quietly. “Mycroft will be your respite parent. He’s got to work most of the weekend, but he’ll be able to drop by and check in on you two.”

“Great.” Sherlock sighed dramatically. He paused. “Two?”

Greg smiled, smug, plating the chicken-and-pasta dish they were having for dinner. “John’s going to be keeping you company this weekend,” he said.

“He is?” There was the prickly sort of excitement, anticipation, spreading across Sherlock’s skin at the thought of just him and John, alone for an entire weekend.

“Don’t go getting any ideas now, mind you,” Greg said with a laugh. Sherlock made a face, and Greg chuckled. “I’ve got permission from his Mom, and he’ll stay here from Friday after school, and leave Monday morning.”

“It’s been - approved?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

“Yes, your social worker knows and everything has been documented,” Greg assured his foster son.

Sherlock let the first grin in a long time slide across his face. Greg brought over their dinner and sat on the sofa next to Sherlock, squeezing his shoulder with trembly fingers. There was something proud, something unashamed underneath Greg’s normally kind face, and Sherlock felt his insides feel warm and fuzzy. He scowled inwardly.

John showed up a few nights later with a duffel bag and a huge smile. Sherlock let his lips curve up a semblance of a smile, his fingers tangling as he fidgeted, nerves thrumming so loudly he could nearly hear them. He licked his lips, eyes darting from John to Greg as the older man greeted John with a hug. Sherlock envied the way Greg was around people, how he was open and warm, inviting all those who needed shelter into his home. “I’ll sleep on the couch?” John looked from Greg to Sherlock, setting the bag down by the door.

Greg winked. “Sounds about right,” he replied easily. He rustled Sherlock’s hair, having to reach up to do so. Next was John’s hair, except Greg didn’t have reach up this time. John rolled his eyes before grabbing Sherlock’s hand and dragging him to the sofa.

“There’s a match on,” John proclaimed, settling down on the opposite side of the sofa, careful to leave space between him and Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Boring.”

Greg chuckled. “Have fun, you two. Mycroft should drop by tomorrow morning. If not then, Sunday.” Sherlock nodded acknowledgement and Greg waved then disappeared out the door.

“How long have you been with him?” John asked after approximately ten minutes of watching the match on the television. “Living with him, I mean.”

“Three months,” Sherlock answered, pulling his knees up to his chest and staring straight at the television, avoiding John’s gaze. “Longest I’ve been in a home since - since I entered care.”

John nodded absently. “What’re we going to do for dinner?”

They ended up ordering pizza, and John ate half of it while Sherlock nibbled on his one slice. He had grown accustomed to not eating much, and the habit had grown from scarce food growing up. It was strange, sitting near John. John, who was so animated, cheering and chatting at both the screen and Sherlock as his team fought for the win. Sherlock didn’t really understand what was going on, but it was fascinating to watch John, watch how he lit up, how vibrant and full of light he was, pumping his fist into the air and turning to Sherlock with a huge, unabashed smile.

He saw things, in people. Saw John’s mother’s alcoholism in the creases in John’s clothes. Saw the way Marie cheated on Greg in what she wore, the time she spent out. But he didn’t speak, didn’t say anything about what he witnessed. He had tried, once. When he was home. Never again. Sherlock shivered.

The weather had been cloudy, most of the day, and Sherlock saw the beginning of rain outside, the droplets splattering on the cement. He shifted uncomfortably. There’d been a storm in the forecast. A thunderstorm. Sherlock hated thunderstorms, hated the loud noises, the flashes of lightning. They scared him and he had no idea why. Most nights, he hid in his bed, under his duvet, and waited for them to go away. But John was here. Sherlock wasn’t sure what that would do. Would they be better? Would they be worse?

It wasn’t long before the rain started pouring down, nearly deafening out the noise of the TV. Sherlock had drawn up into himself, tensing, and once he heard the first peal of thunder, fear surged throughout his entire body. “I’m going to bed.” He unfurled from the sofa and walked off to his room, not even looking back. Shedding his clothes, he drew on his pyjamas, crawling under the covers and pulling them up over his head. He curled into a ball on the wide bed, centering himself, focusing on inhaling steady breaths as the thunder crashed loudly around him.

The door creaked. Sherlock registered it, peripherally. He knew it occurred, but didn’t realize what it meant. Couldn’t process it. There was weight on the edge of the bed, and Sherlock flinched, drawing further into the ball, clutching his legs to his chest. “Sherlock?” John’s voice was soft, tentative.

Carefully Sherlock rucked down the comforter, popped the top of his head out. John was sitting on the side of the bed in his pyjamas, watching Sherlock with a warm expression. “Want some company?” John asked.

Sherlock inhaled, exhaled. Thought. He examined John critically, seeing his nerves, his fatigue - his fear that maybe it wasn’t the right decision. But there was also hope, and affectionate, and - caring. The feelings threatened to overwhelm Sherlock, send him hurtling over a cliff he didn’t feel he was ready to face. Sherlock unfurled enough to crawl over to the far side of the bed, leaving plenty of room for John while still allowing for space between them.

A loud noise, a crash of thunder, and Sherlock whimpered. His mind was scrambling, trying to find something to grasp onto, rendered blank by thoughts of blood, pain, fear. John’s warm hand touched his shoulder, and Sherlock jerked away out of habit, oversensitized, afraid of the physical contact. “It’s me,” John murmured, carefully spreading his fingers over the warm skin of Sherlock’s body through his thin t-shirt. “Sherlock, it’s just me.”

“John.” Sherlock exhaled slowly, slowly his breathing, focusing on their point of contact. Every inhale, every exhale, was his name. It was Sherlock’s mantra, his ray of hope. Sherlock turned on his side, saw John stretched out next to him, and flinched when the next clap of thunder echoed through the room.

Silently John reached out, gathered Sherlock into his arms, and eased the lanky teenager so that he was laying half on him. “Is this okay?” John asked quietly, smoothing a hand up and down Sherlock’s back, comforting. It felt strange, laying against John, like his skin was on fire, like he was too hot and too cold at the same time. At the same time, it felt like home - like peace, like shelter. A moment for just the two of them.

John leaned down and Sherlock felt lips press against his head, and gentle reassurance. “Sleep,” John murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Sherlock slept.

When he woke up, he was still pressed against John, and the smaller boy was passed out underneath him, an arm wrapped possessively about Sherlock’s lower back. “Good morning,” Sherlock murmured, stretching but maintaining the contact. He felt anchored. Safe. Valued, despite what he was worth. He pressed his head in the crook between John’s head and his neck. Pressed his lips to John’s neck, tongue tentatively tasting skin, feeling the carotid vein pulse underneath John’s delicate skin.

“Hello.” John sounded drowsy but pleased, and he pulled Sherlock closer to him, his hand making circles of comfort on Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock lifted his head and glanced out the window, pleased to see only a light drizzle of rain.

“No more storm,” Sherlock said, pleased.

John hummed his agreement, a lazy smile decorating his lips, pleased. “What do you want to do today?” he asked, seemingly content to stay in bed with Sherlock.

“I want to do some tests on the pond,” Sherlock mused as a reply. “Examine the flora, the fauna.”

“Sounds good to me,” John said agreeably. “Do you want first shower?”

Sherlock unfurled and hesitantly crawled over John, since his bed was tucked neatly against the wall. “You can use Greg’s shower, if you want,” he told John. “Second door on the right, after you leave my room.”

“Thanks,” John answered with a smile. He lifted a hand, touched Sherlock’s cheek in a sweet gesture, and stood, walking out of the room. Sherlock sat, flustered, and pressed his hand to where John’s had lingered. He allowed himself a moment or two of sentimentality before gathering himself, walking into his bathroom.

The shower was quick, clinical, and he dressed in clothes he was willing to get dirty. He was going to go wading for microbe samples, after all, and he had to be willing to get in there and do the work himself. Greg had granted him a microscope, and he was allowed increased access to the laboratories at school due to his advanced work. Sherlock just had to bring his own samples.

John greeted him out in the living room, making toast in the kitchen. “G’morning,” John hummed, offering Sherlock a piece of toast. Sherlock took it with a grimace and nibbled at it, eating about half of it before setting it on a plate on the counter. “Sherlock,” John scolded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As he walked out of the kitchen, he trailed his hand horizontally across John’s lower back, feeling the muscles tense under his skin, naming them as they moved. It was fascinating, how John was built. How he was put together. Sherlock wanted to study it further, wanted to evaluate everything about him.

“Microbe time?” John asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded vehemently, agreeing.

They spent the day wading about the pond, gathering various samples that Sherlock would use to expand his already considerably vast pool of knowledge. John was helpful, obeying Sherlock's orders and wading into some deep silt to gather the deepest samples. Even Sherlock rolled up his clothes and waded into the water, gathering the top-level samples and organizing them in his kit. It was comforting, the science, almost freeing. It wasn’t something he had done often, in his old life. But it was something he enjoyed, and Greg had tried to cultivate it.

“Ready to go inside?” John inquired. “Store the samples in the fridge, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “The small one, on the left.”

“Greg got you your own fridge?” John blinked.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “He doesn’t like me keeping samples in the main fridge. His wife doesn’t like it.”

“She’s not around much, is she?” John’s lips pressed tightly together, his displeasure emanating from every pore of his body as he slid the samples into the requisite shelf of the fridge.

“She’s cheating on him.” Sherlock admitted. “I don’t - I think he knows, but I don’t...I don’t know what to say.”

John made a sympathetic noise and straightened up. “We got time to watch a movie,” he said cheerfully.

“Greg has a wide collection.” Sherlock walked to the bookcase, pushing aside a few books and selecting one of the movies in the back. He tossed it to John, looking for acceptance. John laughed at the selection - it was a Disney movie, something silly and sweet and nothing that would trigger any of Sherlock’s past. Sherlock sat on the sofa and waited for John to turn the movie on.

John allowed Sherlock a few moments to acclimate before he slowly coaxed Sherlock into lying full length against him, head nestled in the space between his neck and shoulder. It was comfortable enough that Sherlock could see the movie (not that he really cared about it), and still have the security of John next to him, arm over his back. The feelings - they were still there, burning low and hot underneath his skin, every time he looked at John, every time John smiled at him. But they were easier to deal with. They weren’t as frightening.

Because Sherlock knew that John wouldn’t hurt him. John was respectful, and kind. He pushed Sherlock, sometimes, but he would always accept Sherlock for who he was. Sherlock curled closer to John, allowing his eyes to drift closed, lulled by the sound of John’s voice and the muted noise of the video. John’s hand trailed up and down the long length of his spine, a gentle caress.

Sherlock stirred, hearing the credits begin to play, lifted his head. John tilted his down, meeting Sherlock’s gaze, and offered a warm smile. Sherlock’s skin tingled, and everything slotted into place, like the world, that had felt so wrong, was now right. He lifted a hand, fingertips cautiously tracing John’s jaw line, shaky, and scooted up just a bit. Just enough so that, with John’s cooperation, their lips could meet in a tentative kiss.

Heat raced through Sherlock’s veins, threatening to set him on fire, and he moved further up. John’s tongue traced the curve of Sherlock’s lips, and he opened his mouth, allowing the kiss to turn passionate and heated. Sex didn’t do much for him, Sherlock had found, but this was better than anything he had tried before. He felt dizzy. Drunk. Like he could kiss John for years and never get enough of him, of the way he tasted, the soft little noises he made when Sherlock did something particularly clever with his tongue.

They parted, just enough so that Sherlock could see John’s eyes, see the way the pupils had dilated and almost erased the lovely blue of his irises. “Hello,” John murmured, breathless.

“Hi,” Sherlock replied, equally soft, almost shy. He had never done something like this. Never kissed anyone. Not that he had had much of an opportunity, outside of - what he had gone through. He laid his head back on John’s chest, unable to deal with the swarm of emotions that threatened to rise in his chest. John stroked a hand up and down Sherlock’s back, not demanding, just comforting.

Together they breathed, their movements syncing, before both boys fell asleep.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have dragged this out more, could have made it longer, but it was in a good place to end, and I felt comfortable tying it off. I hope you enjoy it and thanks so much for reading!

Sherlock sat on his bed, a week later, pushed against the wall, eyes narrowed, glaring at the door, at the darkness, everything. Insomnia was not his friend, and it was something that had plagued him for a long time. Greg had been back, John had gone home, and Sherlock ached for the other boy’s company. There was something inherently comfortable about John Watson, something that just set Sherlock at ease. John made it so much easier to face the world, and to face everything that bothered Sherlock.

With a growl Sherlock stood, pushing open the door to his bedroom and heading towards the kitchen. His foster father had introduced him to tea, and he didn’t mind Sherlock making a cup in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. Nothing caffeinated, nothing that would provoke the insomnia, but maybe the warm beverage would lull him to sleep. He came to a stop when he saw Greg at the table, a mug in his hands, a ragged expression on his face.

“The kettle still has hot water in it,” Greg murmured to the table, taking a long sip, his eyes closing as he drank.

“Thanks,” Sherlock replied automatically, making himself some tea. He stood awkwardly while he waited for it to steep, watching Greg out of the corner of his eyes. There was something tense in the older man’s posture, something that sent unease prickling through Sherlock’s nerves. Something was wrong, and he didn’t know what.

“Sherlock, do you have a moment?” Greg asked finally, his drink mostly empty in front of him. Sherlock tossed the tea bag away, added a cube of sugar, and sat down across from his foster father, watching him with intent eyes. “I know you have only been in my care for approximately four months,” he began, leaning back.

“That’s quite a bit longer than I managed anywhere else,” Sherlock said defensively. Was he getting moved? Pulled from his placement? He gripped the warm mug tighter, fear warming him up without providing the same comfort a warm beverage did.

“Sherlock, I’m not having you moved, nor are they going to move you.” Greg’s voice was firm, reassuring, and Sherlock relaxed slightly, shifting in his chair.

He studied his foster father, watched the way his eyes flickered, the fatigue, the emptiness. The desolation, the sadness. “You are getting divorced.”

Surprise, then resignation. “Yeah. You knew, didn’t you?”

Sherlock looked away, uncomfortable, and took a long drink of his tea. “Yes.” Should he have said something? Did Greg expect something of him? Hate him for not speaking up, not stepping in?

“Sherlock, I can see you thinking from here.” Greg shifted, leaning forward, his eyes kind. “You’re a teenager. That is not your responsibility. It is my job to take care of you, and provide you with a safe environment, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“They will take me,” Sherlock said flatly. “Divorce means this will no longer be a stable environment.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Greg countered.

“Yes, I do.” Sherlock stood, the mostly empty mug in his hand.

“No, you don’t. Sherlock, I want to adopt you before the divorce goes through, so they can’t take you.” Sherlock stared, frozen. The mug clattered to the floor, the last of the tea spilling onto the tile. Greg leaned backwards this time, his anxiety plastered across his face. “That bad?”

“John.” Sherlock backed away. His heart beat fast in his chest, his face flushed, anxiety heightening all of his senses, sending his blood thrumming through his vein. Panic. Fight or flight.

“Go,” Greg said softly. “It’s okay.” Sherlock caught a last glimpse of his foster father rubbing his forehead, slumped against the table, before he disappeared out the door.

Sherlock knocked on the window he knew was John’s, and waited. Then knocked again. He had to wake up. Sherlock needed him. His eyes were wide and panicked, his hands shaking so that the window pane rattled when he knocked. “Sherlock?” John sounded drowsy as he pulled open the window. “Sherlock, what are you doing here? It’s…” He trailed off. Sherlock could feel John’s gaze upon him, could hear him think, and he crawled through the open window, his fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. He couldn’t look at John. Everything was too much.

“Come here,” John urged gently, sounding less groggy, more focused. He gently took Sherlock’s hands, drew him closer. Sherlock looked down at him, puzzled. The height difference was, frankly, a bit silly at times. John sitting on the edge of his bed meant his head was at the level of Sherlock’s upper stomach. More like a cat than a person, but when John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and drew him close, Sherlock found that he didn’t care.

He leaned down, awkwardly, pressing himself closer to John. “Here, hold on a sec.” John laid back, stretching out on his narrow bed, and leaving room for Sherlock to crawl in with him. Sherlock wasted no time, sprawling out half on top of the shorter teen, fingers working on unraveling threads in John’s night shirt. Sherlock felt John’s arm settle over his hips, felt his hand stroke up and down his back. Comforting. Warm. Safe. He burrowed closer to him, burying his nose in the safe skin of John’s neck. Breathed in John’s scent. It was all okay.

“Sherlock, what happened?” John asked softly, not stopping in his gentle ministrations. He laid his other hand on top of Sherlock’s wandering fingers. Not forcing him to quit, but offering support. More comfort, if he wanted it. Reassurance.

“He wants to adopt me.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled by John’s skin, but Sherlock didn’t care. He liked it, curled up against John. his body was warm, pleasantly so, and it sent little butterflies aflutter in his stomach, knowing that he could kiss John, and stay close. That John wanted him, and was worried about him. John cared.

“Greg?” John sounded puzzled, and Sherlock hated it, as much as he - as much as John was John. Sentiment was weakness. Sentiment was having to explain your motivations. Wanting someone to understand you just as much as you understood yourself. Wanting to share that bit of you with someone else. The parts of you no one else saw. Sherlock understood it. Knew what it required. But he - it was a step, a final leap. Trust. He was not sure he could take it.

“Yes.” He curled impossibly tighter. His grip turned into a fist, and John’s warm, calloused hand covered it, stroking with a thumb, reassuring. His movements on Sherlock’s back became more frequent, maintaining the same, steady rhythm that Sherlock could track, reassured by its predictability.

“How do you feel about that?” John’s voice was cautious. Sherlock could hear that he did not understand Sherlock’s panic, could not see how the pieces slotted together to produce such a reaction. But he was willing, and he was there, and to Sherlock, that was what mattered.

So he leaped. Jumped over that final chasm. Hoped that John would be there on the other side to catch him. Hold him safe. “I do not have - a good history with ‘fathers’.” He all but snarled the last word, the faint memory of his own biological parent tinging it with hatred, fear, revulsion. The majority towards his father, but an uncomfortable amount towards himself. What he had done. What had happened. He shuddered, and John tightened his grip, pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s curls.

“Greg is not your biological Dad, Sherlock,” John told him, his voice low and solemn. There was the faintest grit to the tone, from being freshly awoken, and Sherlock rather liked it. He resolved to wake John up more consistently in order to experience it. “He’s a good dad. He’ll look out for you.”

“His wife left him,” Sherlock continued. “He is getting a divorce.”

“Good for him,” John muttered, feeling Sherlock still slightly. “Sherlock, he wants you to be in a safe environment. He’s not going to compromise that. Greg cares about you, like a good parent should.”

“He is wholly unwanted,” Sherlock mumbled. “I do not need his affection.”

“You say that,” John started, stroking Sherlock’s hair with his free hand, combing through the curls, “But you care what he says a significant amount, don’t you?”

“No,” Sherlock answered immediately.

“You know from you, when you’re talking about sentiment, that means yes, right?”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Sherlock.” John kissed his head again. “If you really mean no, I’ll respect that, and we can brainstorm ways around it. But I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

“Possibly.” Sherlock scowled.

“There we go.” John hugged him slightly. “Anything else?”

“It could influence my placement with Greg. That is why he wishes to adopt me.” Sherlock sounded slightly scornful. It was a matter of convenience, nothing more. “He does not wish to ‘abandon’ me, and is therefore assuring that his conscious is clear.”

“You always look the negative road when you get the chance, don’t you?” John stroked a hand up and down Sherlock’s back, nonjudgmental, simply observational.

“It has been my experience that I am tolerated due to obligation rather than affection,” Sherlock replied stiffly.

“We just talked about this, love,” John said gently. “If you don’t to be adopted, tell him, and you can figure out a solution. You can drop by in the morning.”

“I want to stay.” Sherlock didn’t think he could get any closer to John without melding their two bodies into one, but he was going to try. “I want you to come with me, when I talk to Greg.”

“The night?” Sherlock felt John’s head tilt as he shot an uneasy glance at the door.

“Please.” He heard John’s blinking, felt the way his body changed, and then had John’s hands on him again, comforting and warm.

“Yeah, of course.” Carefully John lifted his head with his fingers, kissing him slowly, tender. They broke apart, and Sherlock laid his head down on John’s chest, feeling the other teen’s breathing slowly start to even out, felt him settle, prepare to go back to sleep.

“I do not desire to have sex with you.” Sherlock’s voice was small. He was uncertain, scared. It was a thing to be discussed, was it not? John most certainly desired sex, and while Sherlock was okay with giving it, it was not on his preferred list of activities, especially when there were many other things to occupy his time.

“What?” John scrubbed at his face, trying to shake off the fog that had come from a nearly asleep brain. “Oh. That’s fine, and all. We don’t have to think about that now.”

“But you desire sex, do you not?” Sherlock persisted, starting to pluck at the hem of John’s shirt. It was a nervous habit, something that gave him a texture under his fingers. Carefully John captured his hand, twining the fingers together and stroking Sherlock’s palm until he calmed.

“Yeah, a bit,” John said. “But if you don’t, that’s fine. If there are some things you’re comfortable with but you don’t want to do other things, that’s cool too.”

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments. “You are not disappointed.”

“Sherlock, the point of a relationship is for it to be mutually satisfying for both parties. I love you - yeah, I know you tried to stop me from saying it, but I have to. Sherlock, I love you.” Sherlock inhaled sharply, forcing his body to relax, to curl closer to John. Scary though sentiment was, John was a port of safety, security. He would protect him. “If there are things you don’t want to do - physical things, emotional things, romantic things, whatever - it’s a partnership. I know you have been through some stuff in the past and I don’t want to stir anything up that would cause you pain.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said quietly. He tentatively pressed a kiss to the underside of John’s jaw, drawing a slight giggle from the smaller teen (Sherlock filed it away under John’s ticklish spots), and then he settled down again.

“Have you thought about what to tell Greg?” John asked softly. Curious.

Sherlock swallowed, ignoring the shiver that sparked down his spine. “I want - I want a home. A real one. If - I...I want him to adopt me.”

“Good.” John smiled a pleased, lazy smile, and Sherlock felt his insides melt, despite the panic that was thrumming throughout his body. Bad memories, worried memories - all seemed to send Sherlock head over heels, leave him without the ability to right himself.

“I’ve got you,” John said, his voice low. He nuzzled Sherlock’s hair. He was Sherlock’s shelter, his protector, guardian. A safe haven from the storm that raged outside. “Forever and ever.”


End file.
